


Still

by RacheIDuncan



Series: Survivor [5]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheIDuncan/pseuds/RacheIDuncan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You got everyone in this country believin’ that Captain America’s gonna come back, that he ain’t dead, and years later where is he? Stuck in that camp I believed Jesus was gonna save me, and he ain’t never did. Believin’s nothin’. Nothin’.”</p>
<p>The aftermath of 'Crash'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> The multi-chaptered finale to the 'Survivor' series.
> 
> Thank you, for your feedback so far. Enjoy. :)

Jazz makes her feel, in that shimmering moment of saxophone and bass, a perpetual state of comfort. There's a subtle soothing that comes from the strings, from the woodwind instruments, that reminds her of the feeling of her mother's arms. The sound of her father's hearty laughter. The taste of a lover's lips teasing her own so delicately, so temptingly.

However, in her youth, jazz was shunned from their residence; it was cast out like a wicked heathen. To listen to jazz was a sin, it was nothing more, apparently, that bastardised slave music adopted by these American flappers whose influence had even began to make its way over to London. It was the anthem of the lynched. The chorus to the scandalous. If you so much as swayed to jazz, well, that was fifty hail Mary's before supper. Another fifty afterwards. 

But her mother had loved jazz and so she would find ways to listen. It's entirely feasible that this simple act, this violation of restriction, was the very first rule that she broke of grandmother's, and it's what spurred her to break more. With twitching hands and tapping feet, in the back of class, she would create fantasies of her future, dancing to jazz like her own mother had done. Only in her fantasies, her partner would constantly shift between a man or a woman. She didn't mind of course, she kept it quiet though. After all, jazz was scandalous enough. 

Perhaps that's why she still enjoys it now. It sends her back to those small rebellions in record shops, to those heated dances that led to everything more in the alleyways of Whitechapel. She still has the same fantasies. Dreams of twisting with Steve had long since faded into dreams of twirling with Angie. In these dreams, these nightly fantasies, she always found herself getting lost in the rhythm, in Angie. The build up of the strings would be her lips on her neck. The wheeze of the clarinet would be her fingers hiking up her skirt. And, oh god, that crescendo of the sax would be that sweet, sweet sound of Angie's pleasure. 

“Oh, Peggy…”

Panting, that's how she wakes up. 

To the sound of car horns blaring and people’s voices screeching.

/ / 

"It's been days, sir, there's no sign of her waking up, might I recommend--"

"No! You don't get to recommend a thing! You know who that is in there? That's Agent Peggy Carter, served alongside Captain America and she's damn saved all of us more times than you can even figure! She was part of the force that stopped HYDRA takin’ over! She stopped me, brainwashed, dropping a bomb on this city! She’s never given up on us, so you damn better never give up on her!”

Jarvis leans against the wall. Mr Stark can certainly make an argument loud enough to be heard right down to the West Village, the other side of the city. Perhaps even further. It’s unsurprising really, it’s become a rather dulcet sound, hearing Mr Stark curse all the surgeons for not believing in Miss Carter. It’s happened every day since. Every day these doctors, these medical professionals, they say that she’s not responding, that her reflexes aren’t working, her body isn’t fixing. And every day Mr Stark will shout them down into submission, he tells them to keep on giving her the drugs, keep on checking her machines. He says that she’ll wake up, now or in fifty years. He doesn’t care. He won’t give up Steve’s, no, he won’t give up on the world’s best girl. 

He's never heard Mr Stark speak so highly of anyone as he does Miss Carter, except maybe The Captain himself. Of course, over the months Jarvis had found himself entertaining the very notion that Steve Rogers was not the only 'Captain America' that the war created, no. 

Jarvis sighs heavily, and pushes open the door. 

Two cups of tea burn in his hands. 

Peggy Carter is the hero that the world needs. She's Captain America in her own right, in fact, she's, he dare considers, worth much more than him. Maybe a whole assembly of superheroes, she could be. Yes, with her loyalty, her dedication, the world wouldn't need another to hold it up. However, he knows that eventually she would need more avengers, not even she can hold it up on her own for too long. 

Even the greatest superheroes need support. 

The beeping in the room has become as familiar as the feeling of his own heart. 

And what Jarvis' heart feels, right now, is an almost shattering. Just like the last few days, he's walked in to witness Miss Martinelli all curled in the armchair next to Miss Carter's bed. She hasn’t been home since the accident, very near refuses to leave her side. Jarvis has to bring her fresh clothes, send her to the bathroom to bathe and change. She does all this with a blank expression on her face, the kind that a child has when they’re told that they can’t return home, that their home was blown up in a Blitzkrieg attack. (He must remember to phone his little brother when he returns home this evening). 

What Jarvis has learned, over the very tight-lipped gushes of Miss Carter and his own deductions, is that Miss Martinelli has never had a lot. He knows that she’s from the part of Queen’s that the middle class shield their kids from when they’re forced to make a dash through. He knows her relationship with her parents, particularly her mother, is loose, disjointed. (“Horrific,” Miss Carter had said, lowering her cup back into the saucer. She had licked her lips and looked off distant. “I’ve never witnessed anything like it. Her own mother blames her for...for being sent to hell on Earth.”) He hadn’t asked for an elaboration. He’d observed Miss Martinelli’s tattoo only yesterday and just like that everything else appeared to slot into place. Her almost unbelievable innocence. How she hasn’t eaten anything in days and still retains consciousness. The way she flinched only lightly at the cracking sounds of thunder. 

Jarvis never went to a camp, it was never his part of his role, but he read about them. Terrifying tales that sounded so....so alien, so inconceivable, he never could quite feel like it really happened. But Miss Martinelli had lived it, survived, but died all the same. Jarvis supposes that there’s never anyway you can really go back after that, back to who you were. 

She mustn’t have been too old either, poor, wretched thing, she’d perhaps only just discovered who she was. 

Jarvis heaves his shoulders in another heavy sigh, and places one of the cups on the small table next to Miss Carter’s bed, only a reach away from Miss Martinelli. He steps back, Miss Martinelli’s nose wrinkles in her sleep, frowning, she begins to whimper. Placing his own cup down too, Jarvis slowly and steadily begins to rub her shoulder -- a comforting action he used to do to his brother, as his father used to do to him. The shoulder isn’t too personal, isn’t too intrusive. He just runs his fingers up and down, up and down, up and down, until her whimpers die down to quiet breaths. But she doesn’t stay asleep, no, instead, as Jarvis relieves his hand, her eyes blink open.

“Peg?”

Ah, those moments of delirious bliss one feels when they wake up during a terrible situation -- those moments of pure contentment, happiness almost, when the current state of affairs are banished from your mind and everything is still dreamlike. Perhaps there’s a Freudian explanation for it all. 

But then there’s---

“She ain’t ever gonna wake up, is she?”

The crumpling, destructive desolation of remembrance, of reality. Miss Martinelli’s heart breaks over and over, every time she wakes up. Jarvis would be lying if he said he didn’t yearn for the possibility to stay in bed beside his wife, in that blissful ignorance these past few mornings as opposed to suffering through another blinking back into reality. 

“She will, Miss Martinelli, she will,” Jarvis says. He sits on the edge of Miss Carter’s bed, squeezing her hand whilst he sips his tea. Miss Martinelli, she shuffles in the armchair. What she looks like, with her lipstick absent and her victory rolls loose and unkempt, what she looks like is grief. Jarvis sends her a weak smile, “You just have to believe that she will.”

Miss Martinelli’s eyes water at that, she chokes back her tears, says, “You got everyone in this country believin’ that Captain America’s gonna come back, that he ain’t dead, and years later where is he? Stuck in that camp I believed Jesus was gonna save me, and he ain’t never did. Believin’s nothin’. Nothin’.”

Holding her hand like this, Jarvis can feel Miss Carter’s heartbeat along with the monitor, he says, “Miss Martinelli, I’m sure Miss Carter hasn’t told you of her...religious inclinations, yes?” She nods. “Well, you see, Miss Carter doesn’t believe in God, she believes in the splendour, in the gifts, of human people, yes? She believes in you, Miss Martinelli, and here you are, by her side, here to love her. You see, what the world is believing in, what the world is waiting for, are entities, intangible forces -- Miss Martinelli, they’re believing in their own beliefs. Hardly anyone is believing that Captain Rogers will come back; tell me, Miss Martinelli, in that camp, did you believe that the Red or that the Americans would come and save you?” 

Miss Martinelli is silent for a few long, tiresome moments before she says, “I dreamed about it.”

Jarvis lets a smile tug at his lips, “And they did save you, didn’t they?”

“But Peg, she believes that The Cap’s gonna come back. Stark, that army guy with the hat and the ‘tache, they probably haven’t written him off yet either,” Miss Martinelli counters. Jarvis bows his head. “And he ain’t back. He’s gone, all that believin’ for nothin’.”

“Yes but what happened to Captain Rogers...Miss Carter is here, now, right in front of you,” Jarvis says. He tenses his fingers around her wrist. “I can feel her pulse beneath my fingers, I can hear her breathing through that wretched machine. Captain Rogers sent a plane down into below freezing temperatures, his body has yet to be discovered. Deep down, Miss Martinelli, deep down they all know that he won’t be coming back. But you, you can believe, just like Miss Carter, in the good of people, you can believe that she’s going to wake up. And she will.”

/ / 

It’s different but exactly the same.

That’s what she notices first, that everything is so new, so developed, but it’s still the same city she knows. The cars, they look ridiculous and the buildings are so towering and so...shiny that this all seems ludicrous. This can’t be real. The people, they’re wearing these clothes, so different, she feels out of place.

And then she looks down. With shades over her eyes, aviator like, she has these tight black trousers on -- denim, she assumes. A plain white shirt. A black leather jacket weighs down on her shoulders. What she feels like is different but exactly the same. 

Her pocket, there’s a vibration. Her eyes are wide. With red painted fingernails, thank god something is the same, she reaches into this pocket and (struggles) to pull out this vibration. A thin, sort of box, something like what resides in Howard’s basement perhaps. One side of this invention, the screen is lit up, a name. Nick Fury. She looks around, the city is bustling but she needs to move, that calm that Angie had settled over her is gone. Peggy needs to run. But this tiny box won’t stop buzzing. So Peggy, with a frown about her face, presses her finger down on the green part of the screen, follows the instructions and drags it across. 

A voice, “ _Carter? You there?_ ” 

A telephone, that’s what this is, a portable telephone. 

“ _Carter!”_

Peggy jumps slightly at the growl from the other line. She can’t fathom how it works but she’s spent enough time around Howard to just let it be. The disorientation at her surroundings is a much more pressing matter, anyway.

“Hello?”

“ _You still not got the hang of this cellphone thing, have you? You gotta work on it, Director, you've gotta be easy to contact_ ,” The voice, Nick Fury, she supposes, growls more at her.

Peggy begins to wander, “Apologies, Fury, I seem to be a little lost right now.” A newsstand, scandalous images of women on the front of glossy covered magazines, far too provocative, Peggy has to look away. Not before she catches the date. _14th September 2014_. 

“ _That’s all well and good, Director, but you gotta get your ass to The Old Bell right now. Some ladies from the Red Room have been trying to contact Romanoff,_ ” Nick says. It’s almost seventy years later. Seventy years from what she knows. Seventy years since Dottie Underwood. Since Howard, since Jarvis. Seventy years since Angie. “ _I don’t know how many times you’ve closed this business, Carter, but it keeps coming back._ ”

“Um, yes,” Peggy stumbles out. She’s shaking. Angie. Where’s Angie. Angie. No. Think about what Fury’s saying. Romanoff, who? Red Room. Old Bell. “How...How do I get there again?”

Fury at least has the decency to chuckle before he says, _“You’ve been off ice for months now, Carter, thought you’d got the hang of it. Tell me where you are, I’ll send Romanoff to pick you up.”_

Peggy swallows hard, looks around, “There’s…” Shopping stores, people oozing in and out. She looks up, to the tip of the skyscrapers, far too large compared to her memory. Angie. Angie. Angie. “I think I may be in Times Square.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy meets Romanoff and learns a little history.

“I don’t know, Director, I think the Russians must just love you.”

“And do you love me, Agent Romanoff?” 

Romanoff, it turns out, is a lovely lady by the name of Natasha. Well, okay, perhaps ‘lovely’ is a bit of a stretch, Peggy’s not going to pretend like she isn’t one of the most abrasive, pushy, sarcastic, little---...Peggy has ever met. But over the course of the past hours, in which an intense amount of fist fights and gun firings have taken place, she’d also learned that Natasha is really rather wonderful. And loyal. And faithful. And goddamn what is it about the people she keeps finding her life. 

Not that this is her life, not at all. Her life is seventy years in the past and attempting to build an organisation that apparently ends up existing. 

It’s called S.H.I.E.L.D and it saves the world. That’s the most she’s had time to figure. 

Among a flurry of other faces, both fresh and weary, Natasha had been the one by her side for most of the fight against the Reds. It wasn't a long, or near threatening battle at all, but it was tedious. Some young children simply trying to imitate the work of the years before. Ridiculous, Peggy had thought. Absolutely ridiculous. Don’t children in this world have things like school and such to keep them occupied? 

Peggy almost laughs at that; rather hypocritical of herself, isn’t it? As soon as she knew how to read, she became disenchanted with it all. 

The car, this fantastically wonderful design, flits along the road at a speed that could be considered illegal perhaps. Natasha turns sharply around a corner and Peggy has flashes. She says, “You’re not too bad for a Brit, Carter, but your niece is a lot less...fancy.” 

She’d met her niece and it was all really rather discontenting. In this world, apparently, her brother had settled down and actually found a wife. They never mentioned where exactly Peggy was over the past seventy years while all this was happening. Not even Sharon. Visually, they’re the same age but Sharon has this naivety that Peggy only wishes she still had. She believes that the heroes always win and the villains always lose. 

Peggy’s foot hasn’t stopped tapping the ground. 

Someone's been lying to them all. 

It’s all a dream really. 

Natasha glances over at her, and when she speaks again her voice is soft, “Did you remember to take your ADHD medication this morning, Peg?” 

She stills, turns her head towards Natasha, “I’m sorry?” And her foot starts tapping again, it’s too much for her to concentrate on stopping it anymore. 

Natasha just sighs and nods at her foot. “They stop that. Help keep you focused.” She turns again, breaks. The car stops. “Just...Go home, get some rest; you’ll remember it all in the morning.” 

Peggy gazes out of the window, the tall, tall apartment building in front of her. Next to it, there’s an even taller skyscraper with a neon ‘A’ illuminating the block. “Thank you,” She says, her eyes trailing back to Natasha. “Today has been…” A sigh. “Thank you.” 

“No problem, Carter,” Natasha grins. She eyes Peggy a moment. “Apartment 3C, your key is in your pocket. I’m in the building next door if you need me, press for ‘Natalie Rushman’. Sweet dreams, Director." 

"Natasha," Peggy says, her hand on the door handle. She pauses. "How am I here?" 

Natasha leans back in her seat. She runs her tongue over her teeth, as though weighing up some sort of answer. Peggy relaxes back in the car, observes the slight twitches of Natasha's face. 

Eventually, she kills the engine, glances at that screaming neon, and says, "You weren't just Steve's best girl, Carter. You're what the world needed. The doc, he...he'd been spiking your morning tea with whatever serum he gave Rogers, a little here and there, not too noticeable. Didn't think it worked." 

Peggy listens. 

Natasha sighs, "The day the Valkyrie went down, it was supposed to just be Rogers on that ship but you...You went with him. He beat Red Skull, and, from what he says, there was an argument between you two. The plane heading for the city, you told him to leave..." Natasha trails off, taps her fingers against the steering wheel and eyes the passers by with a look of gentle curiosity. "He didn't. You knocked him out and tossed him out of the plane, discharged his 'chute. They found him somewhere in South Jersey, I think." 

That isn't what happened. But in her dreams, in mangled drunken stupors, she'd entertained different scenarios where it had. Where she'd be the one to plummet, where she'd saved him. 

"Some S.H.I.E.L.D guys were scouring the Arctic border area, back in December 'thirteen," Natasha turns to her at this, a small smile at her lips. "They found you. Seventy one years too late. But you were frozen and when they brought you in...Whatever that doc gave you sure worked. You should have heard Maria when they found out you were still alive, you're her hero," A pause. "You're a lot of peoples' hero." 

It hasn't escaped her, not at all, that this a dream. She remembers the crash, remembers actuality. But somewhere, a little part of her brain, it says that this could have happened. She just could have saved him, herself, and the world. Instead of him just saving her and the world. He would still be here if only she... 

Peggy rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, her jacket feels too tight, her jeans even tighter. What Peggy feels like is that she can't breathe. 

Pushing herself from the car, too wild too frantic to say goodbye to Natasha, Peggy stumbles over to the apartment building. She feels eyes on her, watchful curious eyes, but she keys herself in. 

In the elevator, her shoulder feels stiff and the world doesn’t make sense. Mostly, she just misses Angie. 

/ / 

"Mmm, I missed you today." 

Peggy's eyes snap open. 

After stumbling from the elevator to her apartment -- 3C, ironic -- Peggy had collapsed behind the door and cried. She was alone again, just like after Steve. Only this time there were no Commandos to call up, no Howard to have dinner with. They're all dead. In this world, there's no Sousa, no Jarvis, no Angie. They existed sure, but they never met her. And, as Peggy buckled over and clutched her own torso, they're dead now. 

Everyone she loves never knew her. Everyone she loves is dead. 

And she's alone, so very alone. 

Eventually, hours later, she managed to pick herself up. Yanking out of her boots and jeans, undoing a few buttons on her shirt, she'd stalked over to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The expanse of the apartment wasn't something she had cared to acknowledge. 

There was a bottle by the sink, yellow, filled with little tablets. MARGARET CARTER. TAKE ONE TABLET TWICE A DAY. She figured, to hell with it, and took three, didn't bother with the fine print. 

After that, she crossed the apartment, tossed her things anywhere - it's hard to care when you're living in a nightmare. She pushed some doors open until she found the master bedroom. Peggy didn't even think before she collapsed into the bed. Wrapping her arms around a pillow, it smells like citrus, it smells like Angie, she drifted into sleep. 

Dreaming evaded her. 

Sometime during that pitiful, empty blackness, arms had come around her waist, a kiss was pressed against the back of her neck. Words were whispered against her skin. 

Eyes wide, Peggy's still in this modern age. The sheets are smooth against her. Arms are fair around her waist. 

"Peg?" The voice says, it's concerned now. "You're real tense all 'a sudden. You have a bad dream again?" 

It can't be. It can't. No. Not here, it can't be here. 

Peggy yanks herself out of the bed, her hands are stumbling around for her gun but she can't find it. It's not on the side like it is in her reality. Instead, she finds the switch for the lamp. 

Angie looks back at her, "English, you okay?" Peggy swallows hard. Those eyes, so bright, they're familiar. "Babe, what is it? What's wrong?" 

It's not her. It's not. She has thick smudges of kohl around her eyes, her hair is loose curls pinned back. Wearing a faded, oversized shirt with a faded "GUNS N ROSES" painted on the front and nothing else, she looks as gentle as always. But it's not her. It can't be her. 

In this world, she's dead. 

"Shit," This imitation says. "You forgot again, didn't you?" A heavy sigh, loud. Peggy shakes. "Nat's supposed to tell me, the dumbass." 

"You're dead." 

Angie quirks an eyebrow, "That's new." She pulls her legs up under her, sat looking up at Peggy on the bed. Sighing again, she says, patting the side of the bed, "Let me tell ya everythin', English." Her lips pull into a gentle smile. "Come on, you can trust me." 

And it can't be her but Peggy's resolve buckles. She's so alone but now she's not? This version of her has found someone, someone so much like Angie but not, she can't help but slowly settle back into the bed. 

This Angie, she holds her arm out and Peggy drags her tongue across her lips before she rests against her chest. Her heartbeat sounds the same. 

"So Nat told you about how you're alive and everythin' I'm guessin'," She says quietly, her fingers are running up and down Peggy's shoulder. Peggy nods. Gone. "Okay...So I'll tell you about us then, okay? So while you were off bein' a Pegsicle I got a job waitressing in this piece of shit coffee shop downtown. Tourist attraction, yuck. Anyways, after everything that happened back in oh-twelve, that shop got demolished and nobody never cared to fix it up. Lucky for me, some guy in sunglasses fixed it so I got a better job. Still working in a cafeteria but for this real fancy business, you know what I'm sayin'," Angie presses her lips to Peggy's hairline and what she feels like is home. 

Peggy's fingers fist at Angie's shirt. 

"So here I am working this job and then I start noticin' things," She continues, playing with a loose wave of Peggy's hair. "Like how Tony Stark comes into to get coffee--" 

"Stark?" Peggy stumbles out. "You mean--" 

She feels Angie smile, "Yes, English, Howard's kid." If Angie feels Peggy's tears through her shirt she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she carries on, soft, "And how that ginger chick who teamed up with The Hulk always has extra ice cream and chocolate sauce on her waffles with her waffles. Soon enough, I figure this place must be some kinda house for superheroes or somethin’ because even the guy with the hammer and Captain America show up some days wantin’ tea and then--” 

Peggy darts up, she knows her eyes are red rimmed but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care because Almost Angie just said Captain America showed up where she works. As if she needed anymore confirmation that this is a dream. Peggy says, croaks, “Steve? He’s alive?” 

And Angie heaves a sigh and looks away, “Yeah, he...yeah…Just like you, hasn’t aged a day since ‘forty two -- but when my ma asks we say you’re born in ‘eighty six.” 

This imitation of Angie is waiting for a reply, something from Peggy, but Peggy, she just can’t--Steve is alive. Steve is well. He’s not blown up somewhere in Russia or Germany, he’s not withering away in a care home. He drinks tea now. Angie, she sighs once more, and lifts herself from the bed, stalks off with irritation out of the room. Peggy doesn’t think because Steve is alive. Her Steve, her sweetheart, her man who never came back from the war. 

All of a sudden being stuck in a dream doesn’t feel so lonely. 

But then---

Why isn’t he here with her now? 

She finds Angie leaning against the sink. With steady, quiet feet, Peggy pads her way over and rests against the breakfast bar. Arms crossed over herself, she feels small, frightened. She doesn’t understand. And Angie’s the only familiar thing she knows. 

“When they defrosted you,” She says, back to Peggy. “And you got all settled in this time, from what I figured working in the cafeteria, you and Cap tried. You both guessed it was what was supposed t’a happen but...” She pauses to take a sip of water and Peggy tightens her arms around herself. “Didn’t work out. You came into the cafeteria and, not to be rude or nothin’, English, I had no idea who the hell you were.” Turns around, she fiddles with the glass in her hands and doesn’t look at Peggy. Her eyelashes do that flutter that isn’t any different to what Peggy knows. “Figured that’s why you kept comin’ back everyday for rhubarb pie and black coffee, tea on Fridays. Even when you have memory lapses, you always order the same,” She winks. “Everyone else knows you as Margaret Carter, the chick who fought with the Cap and saved the world once, more times probably. But to me you’ve always been just Peg, you know? I think that’s why you let me take you out for dinner.” 

This Angie is too similar, too identical, and it makes the corners of Peggy’s lips turn up into a small smile and she lets out a breathy laugh before saying, “You took me to dinner? How very charming of you. Pray tell, where did we go?” 

Angie looks up, scrapes her lip between her teeth, “This real upmarket place by the Upper East Side, they do the best Italian food and you said you liked it so I got us reservations -- thought I’d have to use a whole months worth’a wages to pay for it but Nat, Agent Romanoff, she tipped very generously when I brought her waffles that morning.” 

“And after we ate,” Peggy steps forward, not too close, and asks, “What did we do then?” 

Angie, she places the glass down on the side, reaches out and laces her arms around Peggy’s neck, “Well, after you kept try’na pay for the food, you said that we should get the whole gross, New York, first date experience on your dollar. So, holding hands all night, a corndog and pretzel from the carts in Times Square...kissing in Central Park -- you’re quite charmin’ yourself, English, guess that’s why I keep you around.” 

Peggy licks her lips, “We kissed in Central Park? In public?” 

Angie smiles, pulls her closer, “Yeah, Peg, it’s been legal since the sixties.” And when Peggy’s face lights up, like she knows it does, Angie continues, “I know it’s cool, isn’t it? We have parades and stuff now, Peg, we can even get married.” 

Peggy's hands, they hold Angie's waist, "Really?" 

It's a dream. 

"Really." 

Angie kisses her. 

She wouldn't mind never waking up. 

/ / 

It's later now, and Peggy's trailing her fingers up and down the soft, kiss bruised skin of Angie's body. Gentle, she thinks, always so gentle. She shifts slightly, puffs up her pillow, never takes her eyes off Angie, sleeping, next to her. Watching the way her face twitches as she dreams, Peggy can't rid of the grin on her face. She's always so animated. 

Steve is near and Peggy thinks that perhaps it would prudent of her to arrange some afternoon tea with him. 

You see, what Peggy had learned, while Angie arched her back, while Angie moaned just like she always has, is that Steve is her past but Angie is her inevitable. If this whole situation has taught her anything, it's that, regardless of where she ends up, Angie will be there. 

It's so poetically English that Peggy has to hold back a snort. 

Her fingers find Angie's arm, by the crease of her elbow. This is conceivably the only thing different in this reality. There's scars yes, short but deep and horizontal, but no tattoo. No serial number. This is Angie without having gone through all of that nightmare, obviously, of course, she wasn't born for decades after it was liberated. It's striking though, Peggy's not daft, she knows these scars are self inflicted, and why Angie chose to do them there where in another life had been that number. 

Peggy kisses the scars so lightly before observing Angie again. With a soft smile, Peggy then sets about looking at her surroundings. This modern era clearly appreciates a sense of minimalism, a sense of binary contrasts with the empty, black and white scheme of the room. But it still feels homely, Peggy supposes, brushing her fingers up and down Angie's spine. There's a photograph, framed, on her bedside cabinet, an old man and woman grinning fondly at the camera. Peggy smiles at that. There's a one of those cellular telephones, like Peggy's but white, and scattered rings and earrings by it. What catches Peggy's attention, however, is a necklace. A set of rosary beads that glint at her. 

Back in nineteen forty six, Angie had the same set on her bedside table. 

("Straight from the Vatican, English, it's wrong or somethin' to be Italian and not have 'em.") 

Peggy, she reaches over the sleeping Angie and picks up these beads. In her days at school and living with her grandmother, Peggy had been made to pray to the rosary quite a bit more than other girls her age. Ten Hail Mary's for kicking Joseph in the bollocks. Ten Hail Mary's for throwing a book at Sister Aveline's head. She could go on. Of course, when little Margaret Carter was thumbing the rosary, her head would be far away, her foot would be tapping, and she wouldn't mean a word of it. 

After all, godlessness was never going to be the biggest sin she committed. 

"My great aunt's." 

Peggy looks up from the black wooden cross. Angie's gazing at her with this tired look about herself that melts Peggy's heart. 

Angie touches the beads before nuzzling into Peggy, "She's who I'm named after, you know?" She says, touches Peggy's hip. "My grandpa says she was the best person he ever did meet. He used to tell my dad stories about what they got up to as kids. Says his biggest regret was never sayin' goodbye all proper. Grandpa was only goin' to be a mechanic over in Manchester during the war so he knew he'd come home, didn't count on Great Aunt Angela bein' the one to leave." 

Peggy's breath catches. She says, "She enrolled?" 

She feels Angie sigh against her stomach, she catches the beads between her fingers before saying, "Nah, English, she---...See, my great grandma's family comes from Poland, so when Aunt Angela was doin' somethin' 'undesirable', great grandma sent her over there. 'Course the war happened and---" 

"She ended up in Auschwitz," Peggy finishes. The cross is heavy in her hands. 

"Yup," Angie says. "She was gay and the wrong people found out. Wasn't there too long but the place killed her, 'ccordin' to grandpa, they think she died a day or two before they liberated it. Dad says he admires her, wishes he could'a met her. So named me after her." 

"Haunting," Peggy breathes. 

Angie presses a kiss to Peggy's stomach, "Grandpa always says I'm just like her, figured that's why Dad didn't freak when I came out to him." 

Peggy hums lightly, turning the rosary around her hand, the other settled on Angie's back. 

"Hey, Peg?" Angie asks into the silence of the night. "You think your parents would'a been cool with this?" She slides a hand down to Peggy's thigh. 

Peggy, she chuckles almost, says, "Different time, darling. However, what I vividly recall of them, I'd consider that maybe they wouldn't be too opposed to it -- they were the most loving sort." 

"Must be where you get it from, ya big sap," Angie teases, pinches her. 

Peggy sends a slap to Angie's hand, "I'll have you know I've rather struggled with affection over the years." 

Angie pulls herself up and laughs, "Yeah, no shit, English." Her smile turns soft and Peggy holds her hand. "Still love you, though. Even if you do wake up in nineteen forty two sometimes." 

Peggy kisses her. 

She thinks that the future has so much more promise, is such a better place to live. If she can have Angie as a lover, Steve as a friend, and not have any secrecy damaging her life, Peggy thinks, she doesn't ever want to wake up. 

"I love you too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_"She's not breathing! Someone get the doctor in here now!"_


	3. III.

_“Peg, come on, **please** , wake up.”_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The stress ball bounces against the floor. Peggy doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s dropped it. Instead, in this unnecessarily expensive office chair, Peggy leans forward. Her eyes close over and she rubs against her temples where phantom pains start to beat. If she presses her fingers against her skin with just the right amount of pressure, she thinks she can hear beeping. She thinks that she can hear voices. 

A few weeks in this reality and Peggy doesn’t even recall the feeling of being in the past. This has become her home now, she’s always adapted quite easily, and she doesn’t think she can bare to leave it. 

Home is where the heart is, they say, what a shame that her heart beats in both places. 

Whenever she ponders briefly upon Angie now, well, her mind is assaulted with a devilish grin and thick kohl lined eyes, the ratted old band t-shirts she sleeps in. That Queens lilt to her voice that sends shivers down Peggy’s spine if whispered against her neck. She considers that maybe, one day, she talk to this Angie, she should sit her down and explain that she knew her once in nineteen forty six; that the person she calls her great aunt is actually her just decades before. They arch their backs in the same way, crack their necks, moan her name. 

It’s Natasha’s voice she hears in the back of her mind, “Yeah, that’ll go down well, Carter, _‘You fuck just like you’re dead great aunt.’_ Real sexy.” 

She’s opening the cupboard in her desk before she even recognises what it is she’s doing. The whiskey is knocked back before she can acknowledge that it’s only eleven am. The burning numbs the sounds of the old L &L and “You seem nicer than any of the other jerks in this place, English, I think I’ll let you call me Angie.” 

Instead, she hears, through the sound of that wretched system on the corner of her desk, “Director Carter, I have Steve Rogers here, says you owe him brunch.” 

With a heavy sigh, and a small, humourless smile tugging at her lips, Peggy shuts the whiskey away again. 

She’d seen Steve in passing only a few times since she found herself here. The first time, Angie was tugging her out of their apartment building because “I gotta show you your wheels, English, I’m more offended you don’t remember them than me” and Steve, well, of course, he was at a cart across the street handing out ice cream to kids who looked like they’d only experienced rags and never riches. She’d expected her heart to stop, or to flourish with hurried beating, however, all she did was smile. Angie’s hand was hot in her’s. Steve simply slid his sunglasses down and waved at her. She waved back. Later, she pressed Angie hard against the Bentley, and kissed her with all she had. 

Other times, it had been in the winding corridors of the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters. Her job, of course, had been one of the easiest things for her to grasp -- she was still trying to understand the purpose of all these programmes on that damn i-Apple thing -- so, often, Peggy’s rushing around, giving out orders, missions, telling Natasha to clean her bloody guns if she was going to take them out to the hunting range. Steve only comes into HQ if there’s something important, a severe terrorist threat, an otherworldly going on. (Peggy’s still mystified that the books about Thor had actually come to life). He’d smile at her and she’d smile back. 

One time, she’d been in the cafeteria where Angie works, leaning over the counter while she prepared her coffee. Now, Peggy’s always been a consummate professional at the workplace, perhaps all those lashes in school had actually done some good, but, in the cafeteria, she lets her guard down just a bit. S.H.I.E.L.D is, thankfully, the safest place in the world, the universe, most likely, therefore, there’s no threat large enough to shy Peggy away from tucking a rogue piece of Angie’s hair behind her ear. Or thanking her with a quick kiss to the cheek when her coffee and pie is perfect as always. (Except maybe the wolf-whistling from Natasha, in Heaven’s name, does she actually do anything?). They’d been in some banterous conversation, her and Angie, something about who left the chicken pot pie Angie’s mother had sent over and the window open all night which resulted in them waking up to a lot stray cats in the apartment. (It wasn’t Peggy, not at all, she’d never admit to be so distracted by the way Angie’s shirt just breezed open. Not ever.) She hadn’t even noticed Steve appear by her. 

Instead, whilst tapping the metal jug against the counter, Angie had said: “I’ll be with you in a sec, Cap, I just gotta sort out this evil, old, witch boss.” 

Peggy had blinked, turned her head to the side, sent her smile to Steve once more before saying, “Old? We’re the same age, darling.” 

Angie chuckled, “Whatever you say, babe,” she handed Peggy’s cup to her. “But you’ve been twenty six since the forties.” 

“I think I’ve aged rather gracefully.” 

“The ice must’a kept your skin hydrated.” 

“I’ll inform the beauty gurus right away.” 

“You’ll start a cosmetic revolution.” 

“This age is a tad obsessed with its own appearance, isn’t it?” 

Angie had smirked at that, said, “It’s the capitalism. Speaking of Cap, what can I get you Summer Soldier?” 

Steve, who had been watching them both with an entertained glaze over his eyes, simply shook his head and said, “Regular, please, Miss Martinelli.” 

“Earl Grey with a hint of lemon?” Angie had asked, but it wasn’t exactly a question, Peggy assumed, in the way she unhooked a mug from the stand and went about it before Steve even had a chance to confirm. 

“Yeah, thank you, Miss. Oh, and can I get some waffles to go? I’ve got a road trip with the Black Widow and you know how she feels about highway diners.” 

“Coming right up, Whipped,” Angie said. 

Steve, he leaned next to Peggy and observed the way Angie pranced around the counter. He had one of his small, charming, little bashful boy from Brooklyn smiles about his face when he turned to Peggy. He had said, “How do you feel about brunch when I get back? You can bring your dame too.” 

Peggy took a sip of her coffee, “I think I may take you up on that offer. Angie, dear, how do you feel about brunch with Steve when him and Natasha get back from their mission?” 

“You tryna get me involved in a threesome here, Peg?” Angie asked, an eyebrow raised as she held Steve’s mug in her hands. “Because, I’m strictly _not_ dickly.” 

Peggy could recall the way she’d flushed and looked down at her coffee. Steve too had bulged his eyes and earnestly shook his head. 

“God, you’re both so old-fashioned,” Angie had grinned, placed Steve’s mug down. “I’m just kiddin’. Brunch with you two oldies sounds good. I’ll just go get your waffles, Cap.” 

He’d had to force out a, “Thank you, Miss.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_“Sir, it’s been five weeks----”_

“It can be five decades and we’re not gonna give up on her, do you hear me?” 

“Yes, Sir, Mr Stark.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Director?” 

Peggy opens her eyes, clears her throat in that leadership type of way. She presses on the button and says, “Yes, thank you, Mary, I’ll be right there.” 

  
/ /  
  


“He was very smitten with me, it was really all kinds of...adorable. Stumbling over his words and everything,” Peggy says, a glass of wine in her hands and a grin at her lips. Her shade matches the liquor. 

Where they are, some particularly nice place with delectable cuisine, they must look just like regular people, Peggy considers. A group of friends, two couples, perhaps, sharing brunch. At which they essentially are, her, Angie, Steve, and Natasha, but there’s more to them than that; these people, these restaurant goers, haven’t a clue. They sit at this table, a superhero, a trained assassin, the descendant of a mob family, and Peggy herself, a ninety four year old agent with the looks of a humble twenty six year old. 

Angie had mentioned an old habit of watching strangers and coming up with their stories. Something she had always done growing up, apparently, when words were too terrifying and she couldn’t find freedom in books. (“Dyslexia, Peg, ‘pparently I’m not as stupid as I always thought I was -- it’s a real life thing and a lotta people have it.”). And Peggy entertains this concept, this idea of strangers and their stories. She thinks about what people have deducted about them. 

She could be a professor and Angie could be a journalist. Steve could be personal trainer and Natasha could be a doctor. They could be anything to these people. 

Peggy thinks about where she would have ended up if it wasn’t for bar fights and Ruth and living on a park bench the opposite side of the city. Her leg twitches. She could have been an author, perhaps, a scholar. She could have been a bomb girl, a mechanic. She could have been a simple woman who fell in love with a soldier, gotten married and had children. 

Of course, she would have died years ago if that were the case. 

And, of course, it could never be that simple. 

The way things are going she would have found Angie anyway. 

“You were the first dame I’d ever really spoken to, Peg,” Steve says with a nostalgic grin and Peggy has to laugh. “And you were so proper. You wore a uniform.” 

“I wear a uniform now, what changed?” 

“He knows what you got up back in those ‘pubs’,” Angie interjects with a giggle. “All those improper things. They make you less intimidating, Ms Carter.” 

Steve has a whiskey in his hands, drinks, bows his head and says, “I think they make you more intimidating to be honest, Peg.” He coughs. “And, nothing really changed, I just met someone a lot more terrifying.” 

At this, Natasha tries to spit out a ‘damn right’ that’s muffled by the steak in her mouth. Instead, she waves the knife around. 

Angie ducks. 

Peggy rolls her eyes. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_“Ang? Hey, Martinelli, come on, you gotta get out of here for a while.”_

“I’m not leaving---” 

“Look, I got her favourite movie reel back at my place. She wouldn’t want you doin’ this to yourself, Ang. Me and Jarvis’ll keep her company while you get some rest, okay?” 

“I don’t---” 

“No excuses, Martinelli, come on, the car’s waiting.” 

“Okay but...I love you, English, I’ll be back soon.” 

“Sweet. Let’s get you going.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The glass hits the floor with such a loud shatter that the restaurant pauses to see what’s going on. Peggy has the heel of her hands pressing against her temples, eyes shut so tightly what she sees is white. What feels like tears burn her. 

A hand on her back. Steve. Asks if she’s okay. 

A hand on her thigh. Angie. Asks what’s wrong. 

The sound of a gun being unholstered. Natasha. Looks out for a threat. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_“You got yourself a dollar dame there, Peg. You’re lucky. She’s---”_

“Marge!”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


With a cry from her lips, she falls into Angie, feels her arms wrap around her. There’s Natasha’s chair scraping. She hears her call an ambulance -- a S.H.I.E.L.D one of course. She feels Steve rubbing her back. What is it? They’re asking. What’s wrong? Angie wants to know how she can fix it. Steve wants to know if there’s anything he can do. Natasha wants the guy to hurry the fuck up this is Peggy Carter. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_“Who in the hell are you?”_

“I’m her brother!” 

“Like hell you are, get outta here! Think you can just come in here with a British accent and say---” 

“I don’t care who you are, **buddy** , that’s my sister.” 

“Did you not hear me the first time, bastard? Get outta here!” 

“No! I’m Matthew! Matthew Carter, and that’s my fucking **sister!** What’s that? What’s that noise? Damnit, man, tell me!” 

“She’s crashing again. Hey, doc, **get in here now**!” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Come on, English, you can’t flake out on me now, we got theatre tickets for tonight,” It’s a joke and Angie’s breath is hot against her ear. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you, babe. I got you.” The hands in her hair, against her waist, they’re tight and comforting. The loud, droning beep in her head doesn’t seem so loud anymore. “I got you.” 

Peggy whimpers. Reaches for Steve's whiskey. 

“I got you.” 

“I got you.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_“Mr Stark---”_

“No! Don’t you open your goddamn mouth, Doc, **don’t you open it**.” 

“I’m sorry.”


End file.
